Putting Out The Fire
by waspinthelotus
Summary: JamieXBrienne. Takes place after S03E06, dinner with Bolton. Jaime struggles with saying goodbye, among other... unforeseen feelings. Some adult content. Bookverse/Showverse. CHAPTER 4 IS UP! Please review! :)
1. I Can Stare For A Thousand Years

Title: Putting Out The Fire  
Author: Waspinthelotus  
Characters: Brienne of Tarth/Jaime Lannister  
Rating: R (some sexuality)  
Disclaimer: These characters belong to George R.R. Martin, I'm just borrowing them for a while. This fic is moreso based on the depictions in the HBO series. I have read some of the books and have attempted to include some book knowledge in this fic, although I haven't read far enough in the books to get to the events which are taking place during the episode this fic is based on; Season 3 Episode 6. So there may be some small discrepancies in canon; but I hope not too many! Mostly this fic is an exercise in my selfish desire to see more Jaime/Brienne fan material as I ship them harder than I have ever shipped. I hope to add more later – as the series progresses. Obviously this story will include spoilers up to Season 3. Please review and critique.

**Brienne**

There was a looking-glass in the chamber ("cell", she reminded) Bolton was keeping her in. It was as if it had been placed there specifically to mock her. She hated being confronted with her body, the size of it, the breasts shoved together and hips stifled by fabric, the collar slung about bursting shoulders. Replacing her armor, mail and wool with the magenta atrocity parading as a dress had been a result of misplaced good intentions, or cruelty, or both. How could they understand the insult it brought her,… she was a woman, yes, and women wore dresses, correct…? She attempted to quell the anger in her heart, stuff it down somewhere dark where she kept most of her "weaker" feelings, as she preferred to be motivated by the more nobler callings of duty, honour and fealty. Still, she wanted to strangle Locke, and the men who had tried to rape her. To beat them bloody with her fists, if it came down to it. She didn't need her sword or armor for that.

A firm rapping at the door disturbed her thoughts. Brienne realized she had been staring at her reflection. "Enter," She called out.

It was him. He was adept at picking the worst times to show his face.

The two exchanged glances. "I tried," Jaime Lannister said, after a while.

She felt the anger boiling up again. _Tried_, _he says_. But she had been there at supper, and he had done nothing but safeguard his own vanity - he had namedropped his Daddy, the most powerful Lord in the land don't forget, and secured a horse and a band of bodyguards for his return to King's Landing—but he was clever and she knew it and he could have helped her, could have made Bolton release her. Not that she needed him. _Still Kingslayer, still a traitor_.

"Your lies have done this to me." She barked.

"My lies saved you, once…"

Her face contorted, brows strung together. "They seem to have done more harm than good."

"If I hadn't, they would have..." He frowned and looked at her. "I couldn't let them do that to you. But now, I fear they may do much worse…" His eyes drew up then, green eyes betraying a guilt Brienne was not anticipating. "Locke wants his sapphires. I hear tell your father isn't delivering them."

Dread overcame her as he spoke. Her eyes widened, heart pounding suddenly in the cage of her ill-fitting corset. She turned away and sat on the hay-stuffed mattress, grasping her head.

Jaime appeared at her side. "I tried to speak with them, but they are fixated on keeping you hostage. Bolton has what he wants from me. When I am in King's Landing, a fortnight from now, maybe I can…"

"Leave me. I do not require your assistance." Brienne said flatly.

"Please_ listen to me_-"

"I said 'leave', _Kingslayer."_ She felt the overtight material of her dress straining on her shoulders. She had been right; he was a traitor and a liar, and worse more that he was attempting to mince words with her, to save some inch of his wretched honor, to promise some respite that would never deliver. Brienne was strong, but she wasn't stupid.

"-but my _father_, he…"

"Your father is Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock. I'm not fool enough to think he will rain sapphires down on the Brave Companions allied to the Starks just to free _The Maiden Fair of Tarth_. You have what you need, Kingslayer. I will find my way. Go in peace."

That's when Jaime sighed and said, "_you wretched woman!"_

Brienne reached out and slapped Jaime forcefully across the face. The sound of it resonated sharply across the chamber walls, clapping infinitely in a loop, her palm throbbing from the impact. Jaime stood before her clutching his face, cheek reddened and golden hair strewn in greasy locks across his brow.

With a deft maneuver he moved forward and placed his hand on the side of her round face, and did something mad. He kissed her, slowly, on the lips with a softness reserved only for lovers and whores. He took a moment then just to breathe her in, to smell the plain and common and invigorating scent of her, then leapt back with a grace and mischief befitting a fox.

Her lips stung. His face stung. Her hand stung. His hand, well…

Brienne's eyes opened. She had not realized they'd been closed. Jaime stared at her, absorbed in the sluggish way she moved her gaze to him, with eyes a certain shade of blue he could not discern, how quickly her expression had changed from rage to confusion to whatever this new face was, one he had never seen her wear before.

A heady blush overcame her, ruddiness flooding her cheeks and causing her to stare incredulously at the Kingslayer, who had just _kissed her_, something no man had ever done or perhaps ever even thought of doing. Yet he had done it, at such an inexcusable time, to _her, to Brienne the "Beauty of Tarth", _mercilessly mocked and just as feared_…_

"You can slap me again if you want. It won't be the first time I'll have deserved it." He said.

"You have no right." She hissed. As if it were against the law of the gods, old and new.

Tears began to brim her eyes. All at once a pain slivered down the Kingslayer's heart. He saw he had wounded her, betrayed her, and now he was abandoning her. A disheveling guilt compounded him.

They stared at one another for a time, all the while tears rimming the eyes of the Maid of Tarth. But she would not cry. The tears would not fall. Finally she rubbed at her ruddy face and turned away from him.

"Goodbye, Ser Jaime." She said.

He looked at her; but not at her as she stood, but the image of her he spied in the murky surface of the mirror. Somehow it was easier to say goodbye to her reflection; though no words came. His feet drew him back to the threshold of the chamber. He lingered for a moment longer, then left her.


	2. A Plague I call a Heartbeat

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister had a fever that night and the disgraced Maester had offered him milk of the poppy. Pain had a certain sobering quality to it that Jaime liked; it reminded him that he was alive, and on his way home, but he took it from the Maester this time, desperate for sleep and tomorrow's journey.

His dreams were usually of Circe. Tonight was not a usual night.

He was outside; he could feel the balmy wind in his hair and the rousing weight of steel in his hands; yes, hands, both of them were there and expertly gripping the hilt, the blade glinting in the sun and coming down to sing gladly against the edge of another. The other was a broadsword—on the end of it was Brienne, shining in her luminous armor, a sheen of sweat illuminated on her brow.

"Even with my hands tied I'm the best swordsman in Westeros," He boasted and the edge came down again, swinging brightly steel-against-steel, two sets of feet quick on the boards of the bridge.

"You speak too quickly, Kingslayer," The Maid of Tarth grunted and nearly disarmed him, the point of his steel flying to one side. As he regained his balance she went for him with the blunt side of her sword, intending to knock him down, but he swung beneath her, shoving his pommel into her armored back.

Flying forward she yelled, but came back around to cross down on his blade, the impact ringing in his ears. He stared up at her. A lanky blond hair wagged in her eyes, her breastplate rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"Jaime," He panted. "My name is Jaime."

Dreams never quite made sense, because after that he found himself looking _down_ at Brienne, down not being the direction he was used to seeing her in. The pallid white bark of a heart tree was behind her, her head cradled against it, her cropped sun-bleached hair nearly blending in.

Her cuirass had been abandoned; left somewhere in what Jaime felt was long silky grass, sprouting up all around their kneeling bodies like wildfire. She wore a rough linen tunic. His hands had magically untied. She was still breathing heavy, smelling of the fight, her mouth red and cheeks flushed, blue eyes meeting his in a mix of confusion and annoyance and _lust_…

He was touching her breast. His right hand, lost but somehow still there and feeling, stirred beneath the fabric and caressed her soft skin, she was so soft where the armor had not chafed her. Her nipple peaked and he squeezed it roughly just for a moment to hear her cry out, to watch her face blaze again.

"You're still maiden," He whispered in her ear and she shivered beneath him. Her breath smelled of honey and ale. He dragged his mouth along her throat.

"You cannot take what isn't being offered, Ser Jaime." She replied, voice strong but wavering only slightly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," He said rakishly, pulling her knees to his chest and kissing her deeply. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling enough to sting his scalp and make him press himself against her, warm and mortal and somewhat weaker than he, a dream version he had concocted that bent to the beckoning of his appetite, a Brienne he shoved into the grass, her head bowing and lips curled. The taste of her filled his mouth, plain at first then sweet, like apples in spring. Then suddenly, sour, intensely sour and hot, the taste of fire…

"_Burn them all."_ Her voice growled and suddenly panic was in him again, his heart flapping like a bird in a cage.

He woke dampened by cool sweat. The bannermen were standing over him, observing his frightened expression with not a small amount of amusement. They were here to take him home.

The King's Road was waiting.


	3. Just Be Still With Me

**Jaime**

Rescuing her, he had expected to feel gallant. Long ago he had; gallantry had been practically inescapable for him, the son of the most powerful Lord of Westeros, decked in the glimmering white armor of the King's Guard, his golden hair bright as the sun. But he had jumped into that bear pit feeling truest fear, stripped of his vestments, filthy and bearded and acting alone; there is only one true killer of men, he knew, and its name is fear. His heart thrashing in his chest; the massive beast before him, all black fur and muscle and stinking of death, Brienne bloody and armed only with a stick. A stick. They had given it to her in the cruelest mockery of her talent; and Jaime knew that he must do _something_, for he was the only one who would; to Locke and Bolton she was a plaything for the pleasure of a thousand toothless faces, and that realization was what frightened him more than a bear's jaws or a muddy grave.

"Get behind me!" Jaime Lannister had shouted, and after a short exchange she did, and in a flash she was in the rafters and her long white arm came down and _saved him_.

Few other words were exchanged on the King's Road. The Maester had dressed her wounds with a herb pack and explained that she was lucky to be alive. "Most people don't survive a punch from a bear," he had said and Brienne had offered a weak, pale smile which Jaime was just lucky enough to catch. She saw him looking, their glances meeting momentarily before fleeing again. It was the first time he had seen her smile. It warmed his heart, for a time.

Then he remembered. _I dreamed of you_, he had said, without thought, as he had stood between Locke and Brienne on the deck of the arena. She hadn't asked what it meant. The dream was still stuck in his mind like honey, a trap he kept falling into; when his mind wandered, it wandered to the dream, to the taste of her body on his lips, the pliant warmth of her flesh, how it had shifted so quickly to nightmare, how his cock had stood on end when he was shocked from his slumber.

Bolton's bannermen cared not for "the wench" and apart from the Maester's occasional ministrations she was left alone to sleep off her injuries. As the sun fell into the west over the camp, a sharp chill hung in the air, the men gathering around a large fire and sharing wine. Jaime heard them laughing as they drank, conjuring up vulgar tales about the Maid of Tarth, the subject of derision for evening.

"I hear tell her Lord Father had his way with a mare who birthed the big bitch."  
"She's no bitch, she's a man."  
"She's got tits, ain't she? I seen 'em when me 'n the boys were 'bout to have a go on her. Got stopped, though."  
"Not enough beer in the seven kingdoms to make me stick that boar."

Their raucous, drunken laughter pierced something deep within Jaime. He thought to disrupt their campfire conversation, to draw a sword and threaten to cut out their tongues. Then he glanced at his hand, or rather what _remained_ of his hand, a bandaged stump on the end of a sling. His soul plummeted. He questioned himself. _Why does this enrage me so? I spared the Lady from rape, from death. I've done enough. I am a Lannister who has repaid his debts. I need not rake myself over the coals for the woman who dragged me for miles on the end of a chain for Lady Stark._

Still he could not endure their ill humor and he rose, feet carrying him towards the tents.

Inside the canvas-skin domicile it was vaguely damp and dark, and the Kingslayer searched for the tinder lamp amongst the dim grassy mat of the floor. He crouched over the lamp and grasped a flint, realizing only then the uselessness of the implement without the aid of two hands. Another blow to his confidence; although these days not much remained there, and he was getting used to an almost incessant barrage of humbling circumstances. In fact, the situation at hand brought forth a trenchant smile to his lips. As he fumbled to make a spark, he began to laugh at his hopelessness, a dry defeated chuckle.

Something shifted in the shadows. Jaime sucked his laughter back into his lungs.

His eyes had adjusted just enough to see the outline of the bed mat, a pile of linen blankets at the back wall of the tent. A human shape moved beneath the fabric, rising suddenly, the fabric falling off broad pale shoulders. Jaime saw the glow of soft, short blond hair, the long slender neck of a woman.

Her voice called out, "There weren't enough tents. Maester implores I stay out of the cold lest my wound festers."

"You're better off here than you are in the beds of the other men," Jaime replied. He felt from her posture that this comment made her uncomfortable, and instantly regretted it.

She rose suddenly and came towards him, scooping the lamp up and taking only a moment to light the tinder. In the new glow of the lamplight he saw she was wearing the soiled, torn white underclothes of the pink garment she had been forced to battle in, the sleeves hanging in tattered ribbons on her arms. "I'll see if I can get you some proper clothes on the morrow," He mentioned.

"There are no more dresses amongst these men's inventory," Brienne quipped.

"Proper clothes, Lady Brienne." He insisted. "I can tell how much that... thing... bothers you. I'd like to rip it off you."

Her eyes went wide then, and she stared down at him. Sudden memories of the stolen kiss invaded his conscience; the tears in her eyes, the heat in her mouth; the Kingslayer fumbled with his words. "...because you hate it so much. I will get you men's raiments. On my honor." He corrected himself, nodding his head to her. She seemed somewhat relieved at that, mumbling a soft approval, which eased the shameful bristling of his nerves.

Beneath the haze of the Milk of the Poppy and the weariness of the journey Jaime could sense the confusion and anger she had carried with her in Harrenhal. She was still hurt, and bewildered, but she was alive and exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones. Her shoulders slumped as she slipped back under the linens. He watched as she scooted her tall body against the edge of the bedroll. It took a moment for him to realize she was making room for him.

"Goodnight, Ser Jaime," She muttered, neither awake nor dreaming.

It took some extra time for Jaime to ease his boots from his feet one-handed. Gingerly he placed his body against the mat. The lamplight sputtered and fell low. Her breathing was soft, chest rising and falling and inciting the torn vestments of her underclothes to tremble against her collarbone. Her back was turned to him, her legs folded together almost girlishly, he remarked with some small amusement. She was warm.

As he slid beneath the linens he attempted not to touch her, to lie stiffly on his side with his face parallel to the back of her head, to lie and rest and not reach out to stroke or tease or in any way disturb the maiden, the hostage, the Beauty of Tarth. A giddiness befell him; an feeling unknown since younger days, when he would play similar games with his twin sister, but those years were far behind now and seemed the memories of another man, the hallucinations of a life wiped out long ago.

_Madness_. He wanted her, so badly, an aching that shot up his back and into his cock and made his face burn hot against the cool damp cloth. _Tradition and honor be damned, holiness and houses and gods be damned too_. His breath showed before him in soft clouds, and he realized that the tent had grown very cold, the flame low and icy dew clinging to the air. He laid there like a slab of stone for some time, struggling against the chill, his desire slowly waning. When he felt the frenzy finally go, he dared to move closer.

He felt his body fit into the arch of her sleeping back. She did not stir. Seeking out her warmth he pressed his face into the curve of the nape of her neck, her skin was smooth there and radiating an almost inhuman heat. _Her fever is breaking_, he thought. _She's like a furnace_. Drowsily his body turned, until his legs gently touched hers and he felt the tip of sleep move over him...

Then _she moved_ _an inch_ in her slumber and brushed against _him_ and the fire burst again in his gut and in his half-sleep delirium he drove himself against her, breathing softly against the hollow of her shoulder. His single hand, possessed by some unseen spectre, climbed the silken nothingness of her underclothes and groped down her side, the long expanse of her slender, toned form. Shame would dog him in the morning, break the tethers of his heart all over again, the confusion and bitterness and rage sure to follow. But for now they were _alone_ and she was _his_ even if only in his dreams, or in this tent, or in whatever strange version of reality where she was now moving her hand to his, entwining his fingers in her own, clutching it to her sleeping chest.

His fingers tightened in hers.

_Gods help me_, Jaime Lannister thought as he shut his eyes to let in the stars.


	4. A Judgement Made Can Never Bend

**Brienne**

Waking, she had thought it was _him_. Her fingers clenched tight around his, just for a moment, her Renly, her King, the brush of his beard against her shoulder, his breath on the back of her neck. She wanted to believe this fantasy even as it slipped away from her; that, for just a second, he was still alive, still under her protection, and that he was _holding her_. _But this isn't Renly, _her thoughts scolded her. With the realization her fingers disentangled, her body shooting away from the slumbering _Kingslayer, _her heart clenched in pain.

The smell of the wet ground was heavy in the morning air, the morning after rain and cold and confusing dreams, her head still sticky with slumber from Maester Qyburn's medicine. A fresh stab of pain wakened her senses, her hand reaching to the wound on her collarbone, packed neatly in bandages.

She spared a glance at Jaime Lannister, remarking on how innocent he looked when slumbering, despite his grime and bruises. _How sleeping faces can lie, _she thought. A fresh hatred filled her as she looked at him. She hated him for _leaving her at Harrenhal, _and then hated him again for coming back _to save her_. Hated him for not being Renly. Then the hatred turned to pity and then she remembered that he was a hero, despite it all; and then she loved him again.

She dressed herself the best she could and emerged to the clamor of the camp, which was in the process of dismantling itself. A commotion in the road caught her attention where she overheard shouting voices; she strode towards the source of the noise to find half-a-dozen men standing over two bodies.

"Black Ears," The taller of the men spit.

"How can ye tell? These mountain folk all look the same…"

"Look at the fucking ears, you twat."

Sure enough there was a necklace of human ears, strung on a leather rope around the dead man's neck. Brienne wasn't interested in the ears, though.

"Wot they doing all the way down here then?"

"Last I heard the Imp had mountain men wif him, leading 'em like some kind of little devil army. These was probably deserters, lookin' for a quick raid in-the-night." The man laughed and kicked the Black Ears' corpse.

_This happened just before sunrise_, Brienne thought. _It happened right here and I didn't hear it or wake up because of the damned Milk of the Poppy. They could have killed me. They could have killed Jaime._

"I'm taking his boots," the taller man grinned. "And his cloak."

"But you didn't even kill 'em…"

"Yeah but you won't fit. B'sides, you already said you didn't want 'em…"

Brienne pushed her way through the crowd of bodies, "I want them!" she said, her voice as bright as bronze.

The taller man stared at Brienne, in her tattered dress and bandages, and joined a chorus of laughter. His face was rugged, scarred with pockmarks, spittle clinging to his lips and a wart on his nose. The crowd echoed familiar insults between guffaws and hissing, _manwoman, cow, Kingslayer's whore_. That last one was new.

"I'll duel you for them," She stood there, chin up. "Hand-to-hand combat."

The man leaned and spit again, wiping his lips. "You best be going back to the Kingslayer, woman. While you were warming his bed we were out here, protecting the camp."

"I protect the Kingslayer with my life," She stepped towards him, matching his height inch for inch. It was only when she said it that she realized it was true. Still his comment was deeply insulting in its veracity; she had been useless to him, should show no weakness, no hesitation in her duty.

"Aye, whatever you call wot's between your legs." This earned him another round of laughter from his peers. Brienne remained unwavering.

"Fight the bitch!" Someone yelled, then they too were joined by a chorus of repeating voices.

When the man realized his insults were ineffective, and that he was being egged on by his brethren, he removed his scabbard and knife and gauntlets, and cracked his hairy knuckles at her. "Aye, I think I will…" He grunted. "I'll show this cunt how a real man treats a woman."

She had been unprepared for the fierce speed at which he would attack her. Unleashing a violent explosion of energy, his fist went whistling past her face, her body twisting just in time to miss the blow. As he bowled behind her, she smashed her fists down on the back of his head. He stumbled, and she pounded her foot against his bottom.

As peals of laughter broke out, he rose, enraged, and went smashing into her. The crowd parted to allow them to fly through, the man's punches catching her stomach and his head thumping her chest. They hit the ground. He landed on top of her full-force, but she was able to reflect his force into a roll, slamming his skull into the packed earth and landing blow after blow into his hideous face.

The cries and cheers formed a wall of sound in her ears. Among the chaos she heard only the wet _thud_ of her fists colliding with his bleeding face. She lost track of how many times she punched him. She felt only rage and sadness and the pounding of flesh on her hands.

"Lady Brienne, STOP." It was his voice.

She did not need to look up. She knew who it was.

Jaime Lannister spoke clearly, "Lady Brienne will have access to any equipment she requires.  
You will all be accommodating to her needs, however strange you find them, or Lord Tywin will hear of your notorious inhospitality. There's no worse crime in Westeros than being rude to your guests."

The man beneath Brienne spit out a tooth.

"And get this man to the Maester immediately." He gestured with his good hand. A group of bannerman came to drag the wounded man away as the crowd mumbled and dispersed. Brienne had moved swiftly to the Black Ears' body and had begun to scavenge what useful equipment she could. A wool cloak, a belt, a pair of breeches, tunic and boots, and a notched hatchet.

She was vaguely aware of her hands shaking as she pulled the vestments off the corpse. Jaime was still standing over her. Finally she said, "Thank you."

"You don't _have_ to wear a dead man's clothes, you know …"

"This suits me just fine." She replied. Jaime seemed to understand because he left it at that.

As the band began to move again along the Kingsroad, Brienne found a cluster of trees in the nearby woods suitable for changing her vestments, away from prying eyes. She lifted the raggedy, awful pink _thing_ over her head and tossed it into the dirt, where it would remain forever to be pissed on by foxes and rabbits. The sun-soaked afternoon breeze felt soft and comforting against her flesh, her naked body flecked with dirt and blood and a universe of bruises, but she felt cleaner free of that dress than she had in weeks. The scratchy tunic and breeches were torn and loose on her; but when she pulled up her boots and belt, and threw the dark wool cloak over one shoulder she felt a thousand times bigger, and as powerful as a mountain.

Jaime watched her from his horse as she strode back towards the group. Her eyes met his and she nodded firmly. She walked with shoulders back, tall and proud and, yes, beautiful.


End file.
